


give me tall dark and handsome, mix it up with something strong

by glitteration



Series: search myself, i want you to find me [2]
Category: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: F/M, NEVER GONNA STOP LAUGHING AT MY OWN DUMB JOKES YOLO, costarring benedict bridgerton: epic wingman, daphne needs that sex ed seminar more than ever, exit; pursued by a brother, guest appearances by anthony bridgerton who is really trying you guys, maybe in part ten they can GENTLY CLASP HANDS, someday i will get to use the actual dirty talk tag, still literally zero naughty touching involved, super gentle fancy people dirty talk, terrible and wonderful things, this is even more ridiculous than last time i am so sorry, this show did things to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28523046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteration/pseuds/glitteration
Summary: “I surrender,” Simon says after a long pause, sounding a bit dazed. “Any resistance I might put up pales in the face of such an eloquent plea.”“So the terms of our arrangement are agreeable? You will explain what comes next?”“Yes. But this cannot be… I can only explain these things, Daphne. It cannot go further than that. Before we go forward, you must tell me you understand that.”“And you must assume I want more than instruction, for you have made it more than clear that you do not wish to be married. Let me put your fears to rest: I am no threat to your virtue.” Daphne places her own hand on the bannister, only a hairsbreadth from his own. “You must see this is the perfect solution. If I were to ask a man who wanted more, it would not be… it could be taken as an encouragement I do not wish to offer. You do not wish to be encouraged, so I am in no danger. I do not wish to encourage, so you are in no danger. We are a perfectly matched pair.”In which Daphne and Simon seal their sex ed bargain, because they are two super platonic friends who 10000000% Absolutely Do Not, they repeat DO NOT want to bang each other like the proverbial screen door.
Relationships: Daphne Bridgerton/Simon Basset
Series: search myself, i want you to find me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2085306
Comments: 29
Kudos: 500





	give me tall dark and handsome, mix it up with something strong

Anthony can be described as nothing less than bloodyminded in his quest to discover the finer details of what precisely Daphne and Simon spoke of on the terrace. He abandons his own lodgings entirely, preferring to reside at the family home at all hours of the day so that he may haunt her every step and each time they see each other, repeat his interrogations with increasing intensity.

It becomes intolerable enough she begins to pointedly exit any room he enters. Delivering him a private cut direct is the least of the matter, though it serves to vent her frustration nicely. No, she must avoid Anthony to spare herself blotchy, unnatractive flushes that only serve to prolong his dogged interest in the matter.

Her resolve to press the matter only solidifies with each attempt. The dilemma is clear: she has no immediate path at hand to the information most pertinent to what she might expect in the marriage bed. Mother will only offer strange metaphors about rain and fields and flowers. Anthony will not, Colin likely cannot, and Eloise has made her own ignorance a matter of family debate. Benedict might give her a bit more information than she has already managed to pry from him when mother cannot hear, but not the _details_. The details are at the heart of the matter. It is the details that define the act.

Benedict soon removes himself from consideration for advice on the general shape of life to come as well, however more helpfully inclined he may be. A vague ‘ _you’ll see, Daph. The man you marry will set all your fears at ease, or Anthony and I shall simply pound him into proper shape for you_ ’ does not help her to adequately prepare or clarify any of her many uncertainties, however well-meant the sentiment. If he will not provide her with what she needs, he has lately proved himself a helpful intermediary between Daphne and the one person seemingly capable of rendering assistance on the matter of the ever-elusive details.

And so, the night of the Blydon’s dinner party, Daphne does not wait for Benedict to volunteer his services. It is _imperative_ she find out what Simon had been about to tell her before Anthony’s interruption.

“You must distract Anthony again for me.”

“Oh, I must?” Benedict straightens a bit from his slouch against the parlor wall. “Such an impetuous demand, from my most proper sister? This certainly _is_ out of character for you, Daph. Anthony would not be running half so mad if Eloise were seeking time alone with a suitor.”

“I will remind you, the instigation of this matter was entirely yours. I did not ask, you offered, and now I find I would like you to offer again.” Daphne crosses her arms over her chest, utterly indignant. Her assumed unwavering practicality and adherence to the rules that dictate the structure of all their lives may be the very thing that gives Benedict so little pause in helping her carry out these misadventures, but that does not mean she enjoys hearing it spoken in such plain, unflattering terms. Especially when matched against Eloise’s irrepressible spirit. “Tell me. Are you willing to assist me or must I find Colin and ask him?”

“How could I not? It does me proud to see you join the rest of us heathens in flaunting the rules a bit.” He hesitates, tapping one finger against her shoulder with affectionate concern. “It is just a bit, Daph? You know I trust you. I know _you_ can always be counted upon to be careful, but if Hastings does something he cannot take back, I should sleep poorly indeed thinking I was the cause of it.”

“You know I would never allow him any improprieties. He is merely… instructive.”

Somehow, Benedict does not spot the falsehood, though Daphne feels it surely must be written across her face with a pen as sharp as Whistledown’s.

“Instructive, she says. Well, then. If you are sure, I will leave you to your lessons. Anthony!” He raises his voice, loud enough to call eyes their way. “Brother, I need a word.” Then, with a clumsiness Daphne might believe was real herself if not for the wicked smile Benedict gives her beforehand, he tilts his champagne glass and sends what remains inside spilling out to splash her skirts. “Look at that. Dreadfully sorry, sister. It seems you will need to retrieve your wrap so that we might escort you home. You must be quite upset with me, I should think.”

“My _gown_! Oh, Benedict, how could you. Look what you have done, it will be _ruined_. I must go, I cannot stay like this.” Daphne obligingly pretends anger, quickening her pace away from him as if embarrassed by his behavior.

Shooting her a wink, Benedict places an arm around Anthony’s back as she leaves the room and prevents him from attaching himself to her side once again. Nattering on about something to do with coal prices, he propels them both into Lord Cowper, who can always be depended upon to pontificate on the future of the markets given even the slightest indication of interest. Sometimes it does not even take that, and Benedict’s bait already has him red in the face.

Rather than retrieve her wrap, Daphne veers towards the entrance hall. The Blydons do not open their home often, and only to their intimates. The assembled guests would dream of leaving so unfashionably early, not after receiving such a coveted invitation. The champagne will be veil enough to excuse her absence, once Whistledown writes of it, but she can be sure the only interruption will be Anthony’s inevitable entrance for hours yet.

She does not need hours. She only needs wait a few breathless moments at the base of the front staircase before Simon is at her elbow. His haste to return to her side stirs the same strange tightening in her midsection as their discussions of marital life had. It is not pride, nor affection; she cannot put a name to the ache, but it is _intoxicating_.

“We find ourselves alone again. Your brother _does_ seem to have rather amazing timing. If I were a suspicious man, I might think he upended his glass out of more than mere clumsiness.”

“You need not be suspicious to entertain such theories. Merely observant.”

“So it was purposeful.” Simon tilts his head, considering her. “And why, exactly, would he do such a thing?”

“Because I asked him to.”

“You asked him to pretend to be a bumbler?” Simon studies her intently, as though she were some fascinating specimen trapped under glass to be memorized, feature by feature. “I should not pretend to know what the gown did to deserve such rough handling.”

“No, of course I did not ask him to do _exactly_ that. I adore this gown.” Instinctively, she reaches up to smooth a hand down the beadwork on the edges of the bodice and thrills as Simon follows the motion with what she would like to flatter herself is rapt attention. "It deserved nothing of the sort."

“It is a truly lovely gown. But if you did not ask him to empty his glass on your skirts, what did you ask him to do?”

“I told him to distract Anthony so I might have a moment alone with you. The champagne was entirely unexpected. It is merely... a casualty of war, you might call it.”

"Are we again in battle, my lady? Even when we are alone together?" Simon takes a step closer, eyes intent on her own. “You could not guarantee I would follow. He might have ruined your beautiful gown for nothing.”

“But you did follow me,” Daphne points out sensibly. “And I do not care about the gown, not if you…”

“Not if I?” The distance between them is enough no one but the most vicious gossips could fault them, but the low timbre of his voice makes Daphne feel as though he stands within the circle of her arms.

“Not if you explain what comes after I slide my fingers inside myself.” The words do not trip over her tongue this time, but the blotchy red flush she so despises takes up residence in her cheeks. “You did not tell me what I should do next.”

“ _Daphne_ ,” Simon groans. He rocks back on his heels, holding up his hands in frustrated supplication. “You do not know what you are asking of me.”

“I am only asking for an explanation. Surely there is nothing wrong with that.”

“It is an explanation I should not give you.”

“Please, Simon. No one else will explain this to me. And you are not courting me, you are attempting to help me find a good match with a man who _does_ wish to marry me. It only follows that you help me with the… other matters of having a husband, once I have found him.”

“Oh, it most certainly does not follow.”

“And why is that?” Daphne purses her lips, entirely unconvinced. “I do not see any reason why you cannot continue to explain these things to me.”

“Then you are mistaken, for there are a vast many reasons we should not allow ourselves to dwell on the subject. Top of mind is that your small army of brothers would not look kindly upon my further involvement in your education on such matters. And perhaps more importantly, I have already overstepped.”

"My brothers do not make my choices for me, no matter their protestations to the contrary. You could only have overstepped if I do not wish you to speak to me of such things, and you cannot say I have not made my interest in the subject and your tutelage perfectly clear. It cannot be overstepping the mark when it is what I wish to discuss, not you."

“You think I—Daphne, this, teaching you these things—It is not _for_ me," he says, voice strained. “It is for the man you marry.” He places a hand on the bannister, fingers digging tight into the wood. “The man you love, who loves you. Teaching you these things must be his office, not mine. I am merely… a stepping stone.”

“Oh, you are so much more than that!” Daphne is startled by the passion in her own voice. She coughs, all at once rendered off-balance by the immediate vehemence on a sentiment she had not known she already held dear. “What I mean to say is, you are the only one who does not treat me like I am a child in these matters. Please, Simon. I need you. You are the only one who will help me.”

A muscle in his jaw bunches and then releases, and Daphne wishes she might freeze the moment to better translate what his body says that his words will not.

“I surrender,” Simon says after a long pause, sounding a bit dazed. “Any resistance I might put up pales in the face of such an eloquent plea.”

“So the terms of our arrangement are agreeable? You will explain what comes next?”

“Yes. But this cannot be… I can only _explain_ these things, Daphne. It cannot go further than that. Before we go forward, you must tell me you understand that.”

“And you must assume I want more than instruction, for you have made it more than clear that you do not wish to be married. Let me put your fears to rest: I am no threat to your virtue.” Daphne places her own hand on the bannister, only a hairsbreadth from his own. “You must see this is the perfect solution. If I were to ask a man who wanted more, it would not be… it could be taken as an encouragement I do not wish to offer. You do not wish to be encouraged, so I am in no danger. I do not wish to encourage, so _you_ are in no danger. We are a perfectly matched pair.”

He murmurs something under his breath she cannot catch, but it does certainly does _not_ sound like a deserved compliment on her fine sense of economy and a well-crafted argument.

“I beg your pardon? You must speak up for this to work, Your Grace.” Perhaps if she speaks to him as they do while trading witticisms on the ballroom floor, he will remember himself and give her the cursed answer at long last. “It _is_ your words I require in this portion of our endeavor, as we have discussed at length already.”

“It was nothing meant for your ears. Merely pondering aloud how best to proceed.” He continues to look out the doorway, not at her, but she can feel the full weight of his attention pressing down on her like a caress all its own. “Well, then. If we are to resume where we left off…” He releases a long breath. “I believe we were speaking of what you might do when simply touching is not enough. What did you do that night? If I am to explain the matter as thoroughly as you seem to require, I must have a thorough understanding of the proceedings myself.”

“I already _told_ you,” she protests, flush rising again. “You know. Do not pretend otherwise.”

“If you cannot say it, how can I teach you?”

“I may not understand the marital act, but I do know one needs not say they shall play a tune to sit at the pianoforte and do so.”

“You need not be embarrassed, you know. Not about what you have done… or what you want. Desire is not a sin, Daphne, and shame about those desires no virtue.” There is something sharp in his smile, though Daphne cannot think it directed at her. “If you must, consider it practice for this paragon of husbandly virtue you seek.”

“He would not… look down upon me? For being so bold.”

“If he is a worthwhile man he shall get down on his knees and give thanks for your boldness.”

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathes, unable to find a witty reply and prove herself unaffected. “Well then.”

Perhaps it is only the product of a still half-buried hope, but Simon does not seem entirely unaffected himself. If only he would move his hand, they would be touching. If he would touch her, she might know the truth. Even through her glove, Daphne can feel the heat of his skin.

“Tell me what you did, Daphne.”

“I put my fingers inside myself.” Though her voice still shakes, she meets Simon’s eyes.

“How many?”

“One,” he nods and before he can continue she admits in a rush, “But then two.”

“That’s my brave girl. Did it feel good? To feel yourself begin to soften. To let your body mold itself to the intrusion, welcoming it in. It will be as such with your husband.” On the bannister, his grip tightens, knuckles going white. “But enough of a husband you do not yet have. What else did you do? Once you had relaxed around your lovely fingers, what then?”

“I… I did not know what came next, so I stopped and returned to what you explained the first time, but it was not…” She struggles to explain the frustration she felt. A maze stands before her, secrets unlocked and waiting to be discovered, if only she had a map to its hidden center. “I missed having something… inside me, but simply leaving them there did not...”

“ _Daphne_.” He releases his grip on the stairs and steps away, keeping his back to her until he speaks again and even then he seems to look just past her, as though looking at her directly pains him. “Tonight. Move your fingers, tonight.”

His words provide more than enough distraction from his odd reticence to meet her eyes. “Move them? I do not see what you mean.”

He catches his lower lip between his teeth and Daphne has to stifle a small moan. “Within yourself. In and out, as fast or slow as you like. Stroke yourself, inside, find the places that make you bite your lip to keep from crying out.”

“ _Simon_.”

“You would not want the other to hear, would you? Not when you feel so wonderful, and you are so close to tipping off the edge and into bliss.”

“ _Oh_. And what then? After I have quieted myself, what do I do then?” She does not feel so invincible now. Her heart flutters like a small, trapped thing in a cage, and his voice is quiet but still pushes itself to the fore, drowning out any other sounds. She could not hear anyone else if they stood beside her and shouted in her ear, not when she can see the hand Simon fists by his side, as though he too must externalize the tension simmering between them.

“And with your other hand, you will do what you have already practiced.”

“With—even _while_ my fingers are inside?” The thought of it sends a delicious shiver through her. She shifts in place, legs pressed tight together in a useless attempt to contain the growing heat that scorches places unused to the touch of fire. 

“The thought of that please you?” She nods once, and Simon closes his eyes briefly. “Then yes, Daphne. _Especially_ then.” He is relentless. “If you wish, you may even—”

“If she wishes she may _what_ , exactly?” Displaying his most impeccably horrific sense of timing, Anthony rounds the corner with Benedict at his heels before Simon shares what it is that follows these first, simple touches. He stares at them both, brows snapping together in displeasure. “Well? Do not let me interrupt you. What may my sister do, Hastings?”

Daphne cannot speak through a throat gone entirely dry. Her chest rises and falls a touch too fast, and she is horrifyingly convinced there must be some sign upon her that she is weak kneed and as slick now as Simon promised she would be in the night. Before she has even touched herself. Before Simon has touched her, she cannot help but think.

“I—Simon, he was merely telling me…” she looks to Simon for help, utterly at a loss to provide some small fiction to explain what they might have been speaking about. She cannot tell Anthony he was telling her to do such things. Even lovely, helpful Benedict should not prove so helpful if he were to find out what sort of lessons the duke has agreed to render.

But it is all she can think about, all the same. It is all she knows. If she has ever had a thought about anything else in her life, it has entirely fled from her mind.

“That she might want to have her lady’s maid see to that gown as soon as she arrives home. Like as not it will stain, otherwise, and your sister informs me the gown is a particular favorite of hers.” Simon finishes smoothly, saving them both, and nods a cool greeting to Anthony. “Bridgerton.” He nods at Benedict in turn. “Bridgerton.”

Disgruntled, Daphne cannot help but notice he looks far more collected than she feels.

“Your Grace.” Benedict returns his greeting with a quietly amused smirk, but Anthony has no such desire to indulge in the niceties of polite society.

“Why am I not surprised to find you here, Hastings?” He smooths the front of his waistcoat, shaking off the cautious hand Benedict places upon his shoulder. “Benedict, there is no need to restrain me. I am not going to hit him. Not right now, at least. I will reconsider the matter if need be, though, so I strongly suggest you separate yourself from my sister before I am forced to do it for you. _Now_ , Hastings.”

" _Anthony_ ,” Daphne gasps, affronted. “You are entirely too unkind. The duke has done nothing but speak with me. Surely you cannot find fault in a simple conversation.”

“Daphne, it is time to leave.” Anthony will not be swayed. His scowl only intensifies when she does not immediately take his arm. “I am sure the duke will agree with me.”

“How could I argue with a brother’s command? You are, after all, the head of the household.” Something passes between the two men Daphne cannot hope to understand, and Simon’s smile is challenging when he turns it on her. “Would you like to take a ride with me tomorrow, Miss Bridgerton? We might continue this fascinating conversation then.”

“She most certainly _will not_ —”

“I would love to,” Daphne cuts neatly over him. When Anthony turns to her with eyes that communicate how little he likes it when any of them interrupt him in public, she smiles with all her teeth. “Thank you for your advice, Your Grace. About the maid.”

“It was no trouble. Until tomorrow, Miss Bridgerton.” He bows shallowly to both her brothers, and once again only Benedict bobs a lazy return. “Bridgertons.”

“Well, _that_ was certainly exciting,” Benedict says, and yawns with high drama worthy of walking the boards. “I do believe it is time for two of us to turn in. Daph, share the carriage home?”

“I do not approve of this,” Anthony announces, ignoring Benedict and leveling his gaze on Daphne. “And while I do not know _what_ you two spoke of, do not think I am fooled by this nonsense about your lady’s maid.”

“You do not think I should tell her about the gown?”

“You were not speaking of the damned gown!” Anthony grits out through clenched teeth. “Keep your secrets, fine, it is clear I cannot hope to stop you. But please, sister, I wish you would not lie to me.”

“Brother—” Daphne blanches.

“I do not like it, Daphne,” he says again, shoulders slumping. “You must know nothing good can come of this.”

“You are too suspicious.”

“And you are not suspicious enough,” Anthony shoots back, arms crossed stubbornly over his chest in a mirror of her own defensive posture.

“I have no idea what you could mean. The duke is your friend, is he not? And you are no longer boys, unencumbered by duty. Surely you choose your closest company so wisely now, brother, that I may trust any friend of yours to be as safe as the rest of my brothers.”

They both know full well that is certainly _not_ the case, but Anthony cannot protest the matter without impugning his own honor. His silent grimace acknowledges the trap she has sprung.

“She has you there, Anthony.” Benedict chuckles, lifting one shoulder in a casual shrug, nary a drop of shame in sight even when Anthony turns betrayed eyes his way. “I would not say you are the most convincing advocate for your cause, not when she’s done nothing but speak with him. It seems a touch much, even you must admit that when Daph lays it all out with such concise reasoning.”

“Do not encourage her, you. I cannot hope to stand against the combined weight.”

Daphne frowns. He is entirely aggravating, but there is a touch of something melancholy she does not like in his voice. “Anthony, is something else amiss?”

“Of course not.” He waves a hand, and the odd, unhappy tilt to his mouth is gone as if it had never been. “Benedict, I trust you will not lose her again between now and the carriage? I can see to mother.”

“Good night, Anthony,” Daphne shakes her head, embracing him gently. He is maddening, but he _is_ her brother. His intentions have always been good.

“Good night.” As they leave, he calls after them, “I know you were not speaking about your gown, Daph. And I will find out what it is you two are guarding so stoutly.”

“Good _night_ , Anthony,” she says, and her voice is not so tolerant as before.

In the carriage, Benedict does not speak at first. He merely studies her, chin resting on his palm as he considers her face with an intense scrutiny he more often lends to his sketchpad. “He was not wrong, though, was he? Anthony.”

“...I—not wrong about what? He said a great many things tonight, I could not possibly hope to remember them all.” It is a doomed attempt at pantomime, and Benedict only laughs.

“You are a terrible liar. Nearly as bad as Anthony. Better than Colin, though, so you can cleave to that.”

“Benedict—”

“You two were not speaking of Rose,” he insists gently. “Or if you were discussing maids, they were not the sort of maid who will be responsible for my ruse with the champagne.”

“Benedict…” She does not know what to say. Words tangle on her tongue, only to fall uselessly away. He is right, of course, but even Benedict could not condone the truth of her arrangement with Simon.

“Well, now I know I’m right.” Benedict settles back in his seat, nodding with satisfaction and dropping the matter with entirely fortuitous speed. “You go redder than the rest of us combined, poor thing.”

“I do not like you very much right now.” Daphne glowers across the carriage, aggravation warring with relief in her breast. “You are meant to be _helping_ me.”

“Oh, I am a most willing partner in your crimes. Taking on Anthony in high dudgeon and pretending I know a single useful thing about the futures of coal with Lord Cowper, and all for your sake.”

“Thank you for that. For all of it, brother, truly.”

“Do not mention it. Particularly to a certain someone who holds the purse strings.”

“Will you…” Daphne inhales, squaring her shoulders. “That is, if I were to need your assistance again. Perhaps regularly. Would you still be so willing?”

“That depends. Reassure me once more: Anthony is a terrible shot, and I am worse than he is, and Colin is far too young, so if one of us is forced to call Hastings out the whole thing would likely be a rout in his favor. Seems best to avoid the whole nasty business if we can.” The odd seriousness she has seen displayed in him tonight gently underlays Benedict’s jest.

“Of course.” Daphne squeezes his hand. “I would not risk our family’s reputation. The duke is merely…”

“Instructive?”

“Yes, there is that, but he is—“

“Exciting?” Benedict offers, understanding writ clear in his features. 

“...well, yes.” And a host of other things even Benedict would not approve of, but upon reflection Daphne finds the word most apt. The time she spends in Simon’s company flies far too fast, and they never seem to find a lack of words to fill it.

“Then I see no reason to bend to Anthony’s tyranny on the matter. He has his bit of fun, now and again.” He kicks one leg up on the carriage seat, relaxing back against the curve of the door carefully. “Why should you not have yours?”

The opera singer Anthony thinks they do not know about does seem a scandalous show of hypocrisy, when laid out in such a bald manner.

“Yes,” Daphne says, a satisfied smile curling her mouth. “You are entirely right, brother. Why _should_ I not have my own bit of fun?”

**Author's Note:**

> Lbr, Daph probably could have figured out how to finger her goddamn self, but if canon is allowed to be like "Daphne is such a virgin who can't drive that even the most basic sex mechanics escape her" SO AM I!!!!! Where we're headed, we don't need no stinking "for real, though, 'move your fingers around' isn't sexual rocket science" realism, etc.
> 
> See you guys in part three, and thanks for reading!


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